Mated to the Mad Lord-Chapter 345: Hmmmmm

(Don’t read! Still editing)

Then no marriage."

The words hit the air like a blade cutting through steel, clean and final. Fiona’s heart thudded painfully in her chest, anger rising sharp and fast. For a moment, she thought she hadn’t heard him right. But the cold look in his eyes—steady, unflinching—told her otherwise.

He wasn’t bluffing.

She could see it in the way he leaned back in his chair, his calm so deliberate it mocked her. Fervor wasn’t the kind of man who barked and stormed about when he didn’t get what he wanted. He simply withdrew—and that, somehow, was worse. It meant he had already decided she wasn’t worth the trouble.

"You’re serious," she said, her voice trembling, though she forced herself to sound composed. "You’d throw away a deal this important because of that one condition?"

Fervor didn’t respond immediately. He turned slightly in his chair, the light from the candelabra outlining the sharp edges of his face. "You said you wanted a marriage," he said finally, his tone even, smooth. "That’s what a marriage is, Fiona. It’s not just ink on a document. It’s proof. It’s loyalty. It’s flesh and blood."

Her jaw clenched. Flesh and blood. The words struck deeper than she wanted them to. Every inch of her scarred skin seemed to burn under the memory of what had been done to her—how she had begged for death when she realized she would never look whole again.

And now, this man—this arrogant wolf—was demanding that. The one thing she couldn’t give.

"You’re asking me to humiliate myself," she said sharply. "To remind myself of what I am."

Fervor rose from his chair with a quiet grace that made her pulse spike. "I’m asking you," he corrected, "to prove that you can give me what you claim to offer. A partnership. A bond. One built on trust." He stepped around the desk, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor. "If you can’t do that, then our deal means nothing."

Fiona wanted to scream. She wanted to grab the papers on his desk and throw them into the fire. Instead, she sat there, rigid, her hands curling into fists on her lap. He’s doing this on purpose, she thought bitterly. He wants to see me crawl. He wants to see how broken I really am.

The silence stretched. Fervor didn’t speak again. He simply turned, as if the conversation was done, and began walking toward the door.

Panic sliced through her. He couldn’t leave—not yet. Not when she was this close to securing everything she’d planned for months. If he left now, he might never reconsider.

"Fine!" The word burst out of her like a shot. "I accept!"

He froze mid-step. His hand lingered near the door handle before he slowly turned his head, his gaze finding hers. There was something almost unreadable in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or interest.

"Do you?" he asked quietly.

Fiona swallowed hard. "Yes."

For a long moment, he just stared at her. Then he moved closer, each step deliberate, unhurried. When he stopped in front of her, he was close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. "Prove it," he said softly, nodding toward the broad wooden table between them.

Her brows furrowed. "You can’t be serious," she said, her voice low and shaking. "You want us to—right now?"

He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he was in no rush to solve. "No," he said. "I want you to show me that you’re willing. That you understand what the promise means."

She stared at him, her heart hammering painfully in her chest. Her mind screamed at her to refuse, to throw his offer back at him and walk out. But something deeper—darker—held her still. The memory of what she stood to lose if she let this opportunity slip by. Her father’s downfall. Her revenge. The chance to finally have power again.

She rose to her feet. Her knees wobbled slightly, but she didn’t let it show. "Fine," she said again, her voice steadier this time. "You want proof? You’ll have it."

The faintest smile ghosted across his face. He gestured toward the table once more, then folded his arms as he watched her.

Fiona crossed the short distance between them. Each step felt heavier than the last. When she reached the table, she placed both hands on its edge. The polished wood was cool against her palms. She could see her faint reflection in it—pale face, scarred skin, eyes that looked too much like fear.

She lifted herself slightly, perching on the edge of the table as though it were a throne she didn’t deserve. Her back straightened, chin tilted high. She would not let him see how badly her hands shook.

Fervor moved closer until he stood just in front of her. His shadow fell over her legs. His expression remained calm, but his gaze had softened—barely.

"Do you know why I asked this of you?" he asked.

She glared at him. "To mock me, apparently."

He shook his head. "No. Because I need to see if there’s anything left of the woman you used to be. The one who fought, who bled, who didn’t flinch from the world."

Her jaw tightened. "That woman died the day they scarred me."

"Then maybe she needs to rise again," he murmured.

He lifted his hand slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t. When his fingers brushed her cheek, the touch was light, almost hesitant. Still, she flinched—just barely.

Fervor noticed. His gaze hardened for a second before softening again. "You’re shaking."

"I’m not," she said quickly. Her voice betrayed her, trembling. "Just cold."

He gave a quiet hum of disbelief, then leaned forward. His hand moved to her jaw, tilting her face up toward him. She could smell him now—spice, metal, faint smoke. It was maddening. He lowered his head slightly, his lips stopping just inches from hers.

Fiona’s breath caught. Her entire body went still, the room shrinking until it felt like only the two of them existed. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. The defiance in his eyes held her there.

When his lips finally touched hers, the contact was light, careful. He didn’t force anything, didn’t demand. The kiss was soft—too soft for what she’d expected.

It was her heart that betrayed her first. It stuttered, the heat of it crawling up her throat. The taste of him—warm, grounding—made something inside her twist painfully.

She tried to relax, to play the part she’d chosen. But when his hand brushed the side of her neck, her muscles stiffened. A sharp tremor ran down her spine before she could stop it.

He pulled back immediately.

Their eyes met. His were unreadable, his voice low when he spoke. "You flinched."

"So?" she whispered. "You got what you wanted."

But he didn’t move. He just looked at her for a moment longer, his gaze steady, unyielding. "You can’t fight the world if you keep fighting yourself," he said quietly.

Fiona forced out a dry laugh. "Don’t act like you understand me."

"I don’t have to," he replied. "I only have to know what breaks you."

The words stung more than she cared to admit. She turned her face away, hating the way her throat felt tight. "Then consider this your proof," she said bitterly. "You win."

He didn’t stop her when she slid off the table. Her boots hit the floor with a dull thud, and she straightened her gown with shaking hands. "We’re done," she said sharply, her voice cracking halfway through. "I’ve proved enough."

"Fiona—" 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

But she didn’t let him finish. "You heard me," she snapped, her voice suddenly loud, fierce. "You got your show. Congratulations."

Her footsteps echoed across the office as she made for the door. Her hand hovered over the handle for a moment, her back to him. If she turned now, she might see that his composure had cracked slightly—that his jaw was tight, his hands clenched at his sides.

But she didn’t turn. She didn’t want to see.

She opened the door and stepped out, the echo of her footsteps fading down the hall until only silence remained.

Inside the office, Fervor stood still for a long while. His gaze lingered on the table, on the faint imprint her hand had left on the polished surface. He exhaled slowly, his composure returning—but not completely.

A faint growl escaped him, so low it barely reached the air. He raked a hand through his hair, his mind replaying the look in her eyes—the defiance, the fear, the unwilling spark that hadn’t died.

"Damn woman," he muttered under his breath.

When he finally sat back down, the faintest trace of a smile touched his lips, sharp and unreadable. He had tested her, pushed her, and somehow she’d still managed to surprise him. For the first time in a long while, something in his chest stirred—not pity, not tenderness, but something far more dangerous.

Curiosity.